


Unconfined

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [46]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: COVID-19, Coronavirus, M/M, Sick Character, Sick John, Sick Mycroft, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24071239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: Set during the pandemic. Within a lockdown, confinement can open up other possibilities. There is illness and suffering; love and family; survival and birdsong in the park.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Unkissed [46]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/62565
Comments: 107
Kudos: 294





	Unconfined

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this lockdown ends in the real world, and I'm no virologist, so I've made a lot of things up at the end of the timeline to give these people I love a kind conclusion.
> 
> My thoughts and hopes are with you all, that you and those you love stay well, or recover soon. Much love, Narrelle.

**January 2020**

‘Happy meet-iversary, Sweetpea.’

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John. Before he could protest that the word ‘meet-iversary’ was nonsense, John pressed a kiss to his lips and a small box into his hand. ‘We met ten years ago today.’

‘I know we did. I don’t call it a meeti… I am not even going to say it.’

‘Spoilsport. How about ‘best friend-iversary?’

‘Happy non-wedding anniversary, John.’ He kissed John that time, and didn’t get around to giving his husband a gift for a while because they were too busy kissing.

John had given Sherlock a piece of amber containing a fossilised bee. Sherlock had bought John a new, deep blue silk scarf, though it was not a scarf intended for his beloved’s neck. (Later for their non-wedding anniversary, Sherlock assisted John to despoil the lovely scarf in their bed.)

*

**February**

Sherlock, needing to concentrate on a scrappy audio recording that might hold the key to a kidnapping, snapped off the radio as he entered the living room.

‘I was listening to that!’ John protested.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. ‘It’ll be the same news in half an hour. And tonight. And tomorrow. Corruption, misery, sportsball, celebrity twats, ad infinitum, till the end of time.’

‘Sometimes it’s an unsolved murder,’ said John, giving in to a laugh.

‘I usually get phone calls about those.’ But he smiled as he inserted the ear jacks so he could unravel the mystery background sound in the phone message.

‘There’s some nasty new virus doing the rounds,’ said John, picking up the radio so he could listen to the report upstairs. ‘It’s related to SARS. Could be bad news.’

But Sherlock wasn’t listening.

*

**30 March**

‘I’ll see you tonight, maybe very late. Don’t wait up.’

‘Don’t be absurd. Of course I’ll wait up. Don’t argue.’

John sighed, but with relief. He never wanted to ask Sherlock to wait for him, but was so grateful when he did. The dark marks around John’s cheeks, forehead, nose – bruises from the mask he wore clamped to his face for hours on end – were less red than yesterday, which was something. Sherlock hated them, the need for the equipment that caused them, the anxiety of the worse things that could happen. Sherlock wasn’t a man given to paranoia or panic, but he’d done his reading. What he read, the number of unknowns, didn’t bring any comfort.

‘I’d best be off,’ said John.

Sherlock enfolded his husband in a hug. He knew, to the gram, how much weight John had lost in recent weeks, with worry, overwork, missing too many meals. And John had gone back to bolting the meals he didn’t miss, returning to army and on-call habits of constantly being ready to drop everything for an emergency. 

Sherlock didn’t say ‘Be careful’ but John heard it anyway. He kissed Sherlock’s cheek. ‘I love you. I’ll be home as soon as I can.’

Sherlock listened to John’s tread on the stairs, but it remained steady. No unevenness. That was something; that the limp hadn’t come back. Usually robust, even when occasionally troubled by the old shoulder wound, John was now exhausted and could barely crawl up the stairs when he finally made it home after double, triple shifts. He was once more in the front lines of a war, stoically battling to save lives; shoving aside the feelings of helplessness for those he couldn’t save.

Sherlock flopped onto the sofa and gave in to a huge, melodramatic sigh, even if there was nobody to hear it but himself.

In years gone by, Sherlock would have ignored the strictures of this lockdown. There were crimes to solve! Puzzles to unravel! His brother to annoy! He’d have been out in those streets (sleeping in them sometimes, for days and weeks sometimes) and distracting himself in the most destructive ways. But his life had changed utterly since then. He had even put on some weight, around his thighs, hips and belly, which John loved to kiss.

_What on earth are you doing John?_

_Appreciating the lushness, Honeybee. Loving that you’re looking after yourself._

Sherlock might have ignored the lockdown, gone to crime scenes and been none the worse even if he caught this damned thing. The old drug-addled Sherlock might have suffered badly if he contracted the virus, but his new, happy, healthy self was fighting fit.

But John wasn’t at his peak. And Mrs Hudson was getting older and more prone to passing colds, too.

So despite the boredom and the frustration and the desperate desire to get the fuck out of Baker Street, he locked down – because if John got sick, Sherlock needed to be healthy to take care of him.

And if he was the one to make John sick? If he was the one responsible for Mrs Hudson falling ill? Or worse?

He had done harder things to protect them than stay home, he told himself. So home he stayed.

*

**11 April**

Sherlock thought he’d heard the worst of it when Molly called.

‘Greg’s ill,’ said Molly, anxious and trying not to be. ‘He’s fine. Well. Not fine, fine, but he doesn’t need a respirator. He’s on the mend.’

‘And you?’

‘Oh I’m all right. Social distancing is easy when you’re mostly surrounded by dead people.’ A choked laugh. ‘Oh God. I didn’t mean…’

‘Same, same,’ said Sherlock, in a chin-up kind of tone. It made Molly laugh, reminding her that she and Sherlock had some things in common, still. Dead people humour, apparently.

‘Call if you need anything,’ said Sherlock.

Then Mummy called. He knew instantly that the news would be terrible. Mummy never called for chats.

‘Mycroft’s in ICU. He’s on a respirator. We can’t see him.’ She sounded so calm when she spoke, so reasonable when she added, ‘I’ve hacked into the hospital’s systems, and his phone. I’m watching over him.’

That was probably a bit not good, but he asked to see anyway.

Then he wished he hadn’t. The live security footage was coming from the hospital corridor CCTV, though the open door to Mycroft’s private room. On his laptop, Mrs Holmes was sending the live feed of Mycroft’s heart and respiratory monitors, and neither looked good.

Mycroft pale as wax, cheeks covered in greying stubble, hair lank, and the respirator helping him to breathe, was one of the worst things Sherlock had ever seen in his life.

‘They need to move him onto his front,’ Sherlock said, with the same clinical calm tone as his mother. ‘John says pronation produces better results for respiratory patients. Oxygenation is improved, it eases the strain on the lungs…’

‘More lung tissue near the back than the chest,’ agreed Mummy. ‘Who must I call…?’

But as they watched through that doorway, doctors and nurses appeared, obscured the view. When they were gone, Mycroft had been turned. The hospital gown had ridden up his thighs and Sherlock had the absurd desire to straighten the hem, give his overbearing big brother some dignity in his distress.

The monitors showed some easing of his heart rate at least.

‘Keep me informed,’ said Sherlock.

‘Of course,’ his mother replied.

‘Where are you?’

‘I have a cottage in Auverne. I’m very well set up, here. Is John well?’

‘John’s fine. He has the constitution of a tank.’

Sherlock’s heart beat double-time in his chest. He distracted himself by playing his violin, but only mournful sounds resulted. So he rifled through the cold case files Sally Donovan had sent over.

He’d read the same file four times and not absorbed a word when he finally gave up.

*

**12 April**

A doctor dressed in what amounted to a hazmat suit brought John home. 

‘He’s tested positive,’ said the doctor, whose name Sherlock never could remember. He only ever remembered the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. ‘We need to test you too.’

*

**15 to 20 April**

The best that could be said of John’s symptoms was that he didn’t need a respirator. He coughed and sneezed, but the fever was mild. He ached all over, but he could breathe. He was weak but he wasn't in the ICU.

Sherlock had been luckier, and that made him angry. Why couldn’t John have been the asymptomatic one? He would gladly have swapped, only then it would be John sitting by Sherlock’s side, with cooling sponges and liquid paracetamol and fear in his heart.

Mrs Hudson, bless her, left food at the door, with little notes. She remained well.

Harry called. Often. She and Clara were healthy, maintaining social distance by working from home. She and John video talked sometimes, when John had the strength. Harry told John terrible jokes and refused to let her brother see how scared she was. Sherlock saw it of course. She looked just like he did, before he’d stopped looking in the mirror.

Molly called. Greg was on the mend, though still weak. They sent their love.

Sherlock played his violin for John; told him about old cases, from before they’d met. He read to John from terrible books, and from the case files. Neither of them took in a word, really, but John settled more easily to the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

Sally called. Thanked him for the work he’d done on the cold cases. Told him that of course he didn’t need to worry about the others, when he apologised for not having time. ‘They’ve waited years. They’ll wait a bit longer. My best to the doc, yeah?’ 

Mummy called. Together they watched Mycroft in his hospital bed, breathing unaided again. Mummy’s cool façade cracked. ‘He’s going to be all right; he really is. My boy will be all right.’

‘Of course he will,’ said Sherlock, as though he hadn’t been terrified that he was watching Mycroft die. ‘He’s much too important to allow a mere virus to defeat him.’ The old dry disdain tried to break through, but he wouldn’t have fooled a child.

‘I had begun to wish I’d studied virology instead of mathematics,’ said Mummy. ‘I might have been able to help sooner. I bought the textbooks. I’ll keep reading them. Perhaps I can help John.’

‘John’s improving.’

‘Good. I’ll keep reading anyway.’

‘Thank you,’ Sherlock blurted. ‘For Milverton.’ He had never told her what he and John had witnessed that day.

Mummy was silent for a space. Instead of protesting her innocence she said, ‘My love to John, Sherlock. And to you, of course.’

*

**22 April**

John was starting to improve, but was still weak as a kitten. He also stank of sweat and illness, despite the attempted bed baths. He was so frustrated and felt so foul that he went from foul tempered to unexpected weeping in a matter of seconds.

‘John, ssshhh, let me look after you.’

John hushed and trusted.

Sherlock stripped John and helped him into the shower; turned on the water; stepped under the spray with him.

‘Lean against the wall, John.’

John, exhausted, leaned, his weight leaden against the tiles. But he sighed when Sherlock soaped up the sea sponge and washed his back, his arms, backside, legs. Sherlock steadied him as the turned John to wash his chest, stomach, between his legs. Gentle and thorough, careful and caring.

Usually, John washed Sherlock this way, an expression of love that gave Sherlock _afterglow_. Now Sherlock gave John all his tender care. Washed his body, his face. Washed John’s hair. The sweet names were John’s purview, and he whispered them: _Honeybee, Sweetpea, Firefly, Cupcake, Little Bug, Ladybird_ (that was new), _Habibi, Beautiful._

 _Fluffbundle_ , Sherlock whispered back, that one rare nickname he sometimes used. _My bundle of fluff._

_*_

**23 April**

John, tired of being in bed, was curled up on the sofa at Sherlock’s side, half dozing, half blinking at a breeze drifting through the apartment. Sherlock had left the window open for the fresh air, and to listen to the peculiarly quiet streets. He’d forgotten it was Thursday.

The day when a frightened nation showed their fear, their hope, their hearts, their thanks. As a soldier, John had never been thanked like this. Wouldn’t have wanted it. As a doctor who had fallen gravely ill while trying to help, he’d been modestly uncertain that he deserved it now.

Mrs Hudson, downstairs, was applauding up the stairwell for John too.

John, head on Sherlock’s shoulder, closed his eyes. Sherlock kissed his forehead. He wasn’t sure what John thought of this display. He considered closing the window. Turning on the radio. Playing his violin.

John turned in his arms, and his face against Sherlock’s throat was wet. His shoulders shook; his hands.

Sherlock held him. Kissed his hair, his forehead. Held his husband more tightly, and yet more gently. He sang. _Hold me close, don’t let me go. Oh no._

‘Honeybee,’ sighed John.

They held close. They did not let go.

*

**30 April**

Sherlock opened the front door. Sally Donovan stood by her car. She nodded at the bags of groceries she’d left for him.

‘Your landlady picked up hers first. This is for you. Molly and Greg asked me to include the Waitrose’s caramel sauce. Cherry Vimto for John. Is that right?’

‘Perfect. Thank you.’

Her expression was quizzical, as though she couldn’t quite believe the civility of their exchanges these days.

‘Thanks for your help on the Dickson case last week.’

‘You sent excellent photographs of the crime scene.’

‘How is John?’

‘Mending. And how’s…?’

Sally grin-grimaced at him. ‘I know that you know his name. Stop pretending you don’t.’

He flashed a sudden smile. ‘How’s Chris?’

‘He’s making online music videos with all his other out of work musician friends and flooding YouTube with feel good music.’ Something in Sherlock’s eyes gave the game away. ‘Oh my god, you’ve seen them. The one with me dancing.’

‘It was very entertaining.’

‘I’m sure it was.’ But she seemed amused more than anything. ‘Oh well. I’d best be off. I’ll text if anything in your line comes up.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My best to John.’

‘And to Chris. Let him know I can contribute violin to the next video, if he’d like it.’

She laughed.

‘But only if you dance again.’

‘You like to suffer, don’t you?’ she said.

‘I’m a martyr to anything that makes John laugh,’ he confessed.

She laughed again and drove away, and Sherlock wondered when they had become friends.

*

**2 May**

Boredom and worry had finally driven Sherlock to tidy up his reference files. He was stowing the last labelled box in the spare room (John’s old room) when Sherlock heard the thump.

He ran down the stairs, two at a time, nearly taking a tumble at the last and only his natural grace and wild grab at the banister saved him, turning the fall into a pivot. He pelted into the bedroom to find John sitting in a heap on the floor surrounded by sheets.

‘Tried to make the bed,’ confessed John. ‘Got dizzy.’ His hands were shaking again.

‘You have to stop pushing yourself, John.’

John sighed misery. ‘I hate feeling so useless.’

‘We’ve talked about this in the past. You don’t have to save everyone. You need to look after yourself.’ Sherlock sat on the floor beside John and pulled him into a hug.

John went, sighing against Sherlock’s chest. ‘Sorry, Honeybee. It’s not that.’

‘And I know you hate being unwell, but this isn’t the same as after Afghanistan either.’

‘It’s not that either.’

Sherlock nuzzled John’s temple. Kissed the greying temples. Kissed the stubbled cheeks and the weary eyelids.

‘Being ill is indescribably boring. And those sheets are gross.’

‘I’ll make the bed. Then I’ll make soup. Then we can watch that video with Sally Donovan dancing again.’

John snorted. ‘That is hilarious.’

*

**5 May**

‘What the hell is that?’

‘That, John, is Gladstone.’

‘It’s a sourdough starter.’

‘If you knew, why did you ask?’

‘I didn’t know you baked. I wanted to be sure that’s really what it was.’

‘I don’t bake. Well. I didn’t. I thought I’d experiment.’

‘Send a loaf to Mrs Hudson when you try it, then. Surely we owe her about a hundred loaves now, for the scones alone.’

*

 **June:** **Wedding anniversary**

‘Happy anniversary, Sherlock.’

‘Happy anniversary, John.’

A lazy morning in bed; cuddles and kisses in the sunshine through the window.

Gifts of sugar, to celebrate six years. John had worked out how to make spoons out of honey, vinegar and sugar. Sherlock had made sourdough cinnamon rolls for them to share.

‘Not sick of the sight of me yet?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Still making up for lost time,’ murmured John. ‘All those years before I met you.’

Slowly, like honey, kissing, nuzzling, sighing, Sherlock helped John to orgasm. After, they washed each other, still kissing. John massaged Sherlock’s wonderful hands.

Mrs Hudson sent up flowers from the back garden. Later, the three of them sat in the back garden, drinking tea.

The front doorbell rang. Sherlock answered.

Mycroft. In a crisp suit, hair coiffed, bland smile in place. He was still too thin. Still too pale. He was using his umbrella to steady his weight, instead of just for show.

‘Mummy asked me to wish you both happy anniversary.’

Sherlock never thought about it. He simply stepped onto the footpath and embraced his brother.

‘This is very poor social distancing,’ said Mycroft mildly, but he was embracing Sherlock in return.

‘I’ve always been terrible with rules,’ said Sherlock. The impulse to let go was defeated by the impulse to hang on.

In April, he’d watched his brother dying with a respirator on his ashen face and nobody there to speak with him, to hold his hand, to tell him (as John so often told Sherlock) that he was cherished. Here, holding his too thin frame, Sherlock could only remember the fear that had gripped him then, and the memories of a happier childhood; the memory of Mycroft helping their mother remove the threat of Charles Augustus Milverton; the memory of Mycroft playing the piano at his wedding.

‘Hey, good to see you Mycroft.’ John had joined them. ‘Walk in the park? We’re allowed now, if we’re careful.’

Mrs Hudson, a voluminous bag in one hand, took John’s elbow; Sherlock took Mycroft’s, and Mycroft’s driver/bodyguard followed a few paces behind. The short distance to Regent’s Park still tired him, so they didn’t make it as far as the English Gardens, but they found a seat by the boating lake.

Mrs Hudson took a photo of them to text to their mother.

John sat beside Sherlock and tilted his face into the sun, smiling. He breathed in the scent of greenery, of water, of air beyond the confines of Baker Street. He would call Harry and Clara later; facetime with Greg and Molly. That would be nice.

Mrs Hudson produced cupcakes from the baking tin. Mycroft took one, and Sherlock said nothing at all about it. Gave him a second, in fact. ‘You’re too thin,’ he said.

Mycroft passed the second cake to his bodyguard but he ate the first, slowly, savouring every bite.

Sherlock considered his cupcake very carefully for a moment before deliberately offering it to John for first bite. John bit, and giggled when he got icing on his nose. Laughed harder when he wriggled his nose against Sherlock’s cheek to transfer the smear.

‘Oh you two,’ laughed Mrs Hudson.

 _Oh we two_ , thought Sherlock. _We four. We family._

And the swallows and the swifts, the finches and the pipits, flew overhead; the swans and ducks and sandpipers swam past, and the green world sang in Regent’s Park.

**Author's Note:**

> A recipe for making honey spoons: https://www.ehow.com/how_5040277_make-honey-spoons-tea.html


End file.
